Formes dans l'obscurité
by Mothface
Summary: Shapes in the darkness. On-going.
1. Shape

Gloved fingers fluttered by her ribcage.  
>Hushed darkness. The air like the lonely pang of a piano. Empty tension swallowed the room in electricity and silence. They both could have drowned breathing.<br>She was cradled in his arms, their bodies pressed against the wall, his face buried in her neck.  
>The sweetness was overwhelming. Francoeur's brain was just echoes of radio static, his body the numb chord of a guitar. There was nothing besides this. Her pulse danced beneath his lips, her hands caressing his shoulders. Lucille's hips arched forward, her lithe body sliding ever so slowly against his. She shifted gracefully to wrap her legs around his torso.<br>The only light came from a few candles and the fireplace, flickering shadows licking at their features.  
>Instinct was a raw ember in Francoeur's throat. Lucille's blood, so warm, flushed her face and neck. His mouth desperately wanted to bite down and taste beneath her skin. His teeth were already so close. Each breath he took stirred fly-away hairs at her clavicle. Lucille's hand caught his chin and pulled him upwards to meet her face-to-face. A careless thumb brushed his left mandible, sending shivers down his spine. Emerald eyes caught ruby and her lips met his.<br>She was possessive, each movement staking a claim. But everything Francoeur had to give, he would give willingly. With each hungry assault on his mouth he let it be known he was hers, hers, and only hers.  
>Her tongue swept the roof of his mouth.<br>More.  
>Her whole body pleaded for more.<br>Lucille slid down further: dragging her palm down his torso.  
>"We are both entirely overdressed for this occasion," Her voice was low and husky. "wouldn't you agree?"<br>Her legs touched floor and she pinned Francoeur against the mantelpiece. The tightness in his abdomen traveled downward, with each tiny movement Lucille made Francoeur's body ache all the more. His suit jacket slithered to the ground. Deft fingers removed his vest. Human skin grazed bare chitin and his insides melted. All the things he felt, but had no name for were singing inside his chest, begging for release.  
>There was nothing left, no questions, no answers, just want.<br>Lucille shimmied out of her show dress, leaving only a tight corset and garter stockings. Her hands caressed his carapace again, but traveled lower.  
>Francoeur's throat was dry. He wanted that sweet-metallic-taste flowing over his tongue, rich hot plasma sticky on his lips. A new kind of hunger charged his body one-thousand fold. He could feel something writhing and uncoiling inside him, seeking a way out.<br>Suddenly, he grabbed the Angel of the Rare Bird and flung her against the floor, a pair of segmented hands threaded through her hair. The tips of his fingers lightly grazed her scalp. Francoeur panted hard, all his self control thrown to the night. Another hand was pressed beneath her back and another keeping her from moving. Teeth bit into the delicate skin of her neck, tongue savoring the flavor. His stomach flipped and roiled in pleasure. Something emerged from the lower portion of his body, sensitive to the air.  
>Lucille gasped and struggled to get upright, shoving his face away. He was reluctant to let her go, he pushed down harder.<p>

"No…no," she tried to wriggle free. " NO! FRANCOEUR STOP!"

He was caught off guard. Isn't this what she wanted? What they both wanted? Francoeur pulled back. Lucille's hand moved to her jugular, she scuttled away to the other side of the room. Her wide eyes reflected candlelight and stared at what was between his legs.  
>Francoeur looked down, horrified. Broken out of his reverie, he wasn't sure what was going on.<br>An appendage protruded from his lower torso that was completely foreign to him. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.  
>He eyes traveled to the blood welling from Lucille's neck, red staining her white corset. His heart sank to the pit of his stomach. He had hurt her. Self-loathing encompassed the core of his being, he wanted to escape this. He wanted to run away from those bright, haunted eyes. Naked, the giant flea pulled himself up, and strode across the room. Francoeur opened the window and the wind blew out all the candles; the fire roared in the hearth welcoming the oncoming draft.<br>The cold Parisian night called to its long lost friend: It had been too long since Francoeur traversed darkened rooftops and spires.

"Oh God, Francoeur don't, please- just give me a few minutes- alright?"

Francoeur continued to stare at the black landscape.

"Don't you dare leave!" she got up, hand still pressed to her neck. "I swear, Francoeur, if you leave…" The Monster of Paris tore his eyes from the window to find Lucille shivering.  
>Her face was pale, a sickly greenish white and her arms were coated with a thin sheen of sweat. She stumbled.<br>He ran across the room in three strides and his arms carefully cradled her avoiding his unsheathed sex.  
>Lucille glanced back up at him and touched his face.<p>

"It's alright, really. I just need to get cleaned up." She pushed herself up out of his arms and wobbled to the bathroom. "Don't leave, promise me." Her face contorted into the sternest glare she could manage.

Francoeur nodded and cooed in assent and her face relaxed. She closed the door behind her, leaving him just a lonely apprehensive shape in the dark.

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Lucille looked in the mirror.  
>Blood drenched her corset and her face was paler than the moon outside. A small gas light illuminated the bathroom. The bleeding wasn't slowing down – it was a small wound, a trivial bite mark, really. It was strange that it wasn't clotting. She took a pad of gauze from her medicine cupboard and pressed it tight against her skin.<br>Her thoughts danced back to Francoeur and to his sexual appendage. She couldn't quite bring herself to call it anything else. It was strange, large, complicated and rather dangerous looking. One could say Lucille was sexually adventurous, but even that took some getting used to. Whatever unwound itself from his stomach was not even remotely human. The tip was double pronged and gently curved upward like a pair of claws, the sides decorated with two small barbs. A set of what looked like claspers hooked outward from underneath and quivered in the open air.  
>She mentally hit herself. Why should she be that surprised?<br>She had pushed him too far and too fast, and both were unprepared for the outcome.  
>With Raoul it had been easy, almost too easy.<br>All she had to do was sashay the right way and he'd be in her bed, testicles served up on a golden platter. Of course there were battles of will, it would have been boring otherwise. They bit like two fighting jackals trying to assert dominance, clawed like lions over meat, and yelled at the top of their lungs for the world to hear. It was a test of who was right and who was sorry, of who was king and who was a pawn, and in the end Lucille won, as she always won.  
>But this wasn't a game.<br>It wasn't about winning or losing or even a lifetime spat over a toy car. It was about Francoeur's heart. All of his honesty, his tenderness, innocence and outright trust melted away her cynicism. Her jaded view of love was chipped away by every smile, every dance, and every song written just for her. Every day, she seemed to get more and more lost in the way he looked at her, the way he sang high and clear.  
>She didn't want to lose him.<br>Lucille finished wrapping a bandage around her neck and turned on the bath faucet. She plugged up the drain and watched as hot water rose in the tub.  
>Tears stung in her eyes and Lucille cursed herself for her stupidity.<p>

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Francoeur couldn't help but look down at himself for the twelfth time.  
>His sex had long since retracted. This wasn't supposed to happen; it was nothing like what Raoul had shown him in his special pamphlets.<br>Francoeur had hoped desperately he was like those men pleasing those women: that at least maybe he was similar, similar enough to please Lucille in turn. He couldn't have known before now, he had tried to coax it out before, but to no avail. The only reason why he knew it was there in the first place was because it writhed inside him every so often, usually when Lucille kissed him or touched him a certain way.  
>The biting was also unexpected – but it seemed crucial at that moment. He hadn't drunk blood since he was a tiny parasite. He could barely remember feeding – he tried not to remember his past life as it only served to remind him how inhuman he really was.<br>The fact was: he had hurt Lucille in his attentions, needs, and wants. He let instinct drive his body forward like a common animal and that had consequences. Francoeur should have known better than to bite her. Now she was sitting in the bathroom trying to repair the damage he had done.  
>The entire endeavor was a mistake.<br>Lucille should be with Raoul, she should always be with Raoul. He hated the idea of her being with someone else, but Raoul was the least hated option. True, she was with him enough already, the whole city knew them to be a couple. They would hold hands and embrace in public, or fight in the streets. Lucille's voice could carry all the way to the Seine and Raoul's verbal abuse never missed its mark. Francoeur was simply the other man, if you could call him a man. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered why Lucille was with him in the first place. Was it pity? Was it curiosity? She seemed happy enough with Raoul, even when she was slapping him for being an idiot or stealing his new truck for a night ride…with him in it.  
>Perhaps it was time he should move himself out of the equation.<br>He liked Raoul. The man could give Lucille all the things she deserved. All the thing s a gaint flea couldn't give her.  
>Francoeur didn't know how to tell her all of this. He wanted to apologize; he wanted to make things better. If all he could ever have was spending time with Lucille and singing with her every night, then he would take it. He would take anything that allowed her continued existence in his life…<p>

Suddenly there was a splashing noise, and Lucille called out from the bathroom.

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Francoeur barged in, eyes wide with worry.  
>Lucille was lying in the bathtub, bubbles chastely hiding what was underneath. Of all things she smiled at him, even though a bandage tinged with red was wrapped about her neck. Her face seemed to have gained back some of its color, but she still looked so pale. She waived him forward, to get closer, but the giant flea was still apprehensive. He stood for a minute in silence, debating, but in the end he moved right next to her, his eyes locked on her face. She raised her eyebrows and gestured an invitation into the tub.<br>The flea tried to back away, but Lucille caught one of his hands.  
>"Please?" her voice wavered and her face fell. "Look, I know I hurt you. I was an idiot – I'm sorry."<br>Francoeur shook his head and let his fingers lightly touch the gauze covered wound beneath her jaw line.  
>"It's fine. You didn't do anything wrong… please?" Francoeur disagreed – he did quite a lot of wrong, but Lucille wanted him now. He was hers and only hers. He could never outright refuse her.<br>She tugged him downward and he slid behind Lucille into the tub. The wet skin of her naked body pressed against his. Her arms crossed themselves over her breasts, and Francoeur's arms wrapped around her torso. His head leaned into her shoulder and she scooted backward farther.  
>It was strange how well they fit together and how right it seemed. Lucille nestled perfectly in the slope of his abdomen, the length of his long legs bent to fit in the tub and her thighs brushed the inside of his.<p>

"Stay with me… like this, forever." It was a strange request; it was hardly like Lucille to be soft or romantic. Francoeur felt her soft breathing slow. Her body felt warm- and her neck finally stopped bleeding. It seemed she was dozing off. Half lidded eyes stared down at the water.  
>He crooned softly, fingers brushing the tangles out of her hair. He sang of how beautiful she was- leaning against him, how he was so sorry and how he wished he could give her everything, everything she deserved. His mouth quirked up into a small smile as she slid down further into Morpheus' open arms.<p>

"Stay with me." She repeated quietly. Francoeur could barely hear her over the echoes of his voice, but his soul crushed beneath those words. He wanted to be chained to her for an eternity. He wanted to stay so very badly.  
>Lucille began to snore against his shoulder and Francoeur smiled wider. He would dry her off and carry her off to bed soon, but not now. The water was still warm, and he wanted to savor the feeling of her naked body against his.<p>

Outside the bathroom door wooden floors, chairs, and windowsills waited silently in the dark collecting dust. Each one a mute reminder of life outside this moment  
>Each one a reminder that it couldn't last.<p>

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The next morning Lucille cooked crepes. The smell of warm sugar and strawberry jam wove through the flat. She bustled about the stove while Francoeur tried to read the morning paper. He was getting better at reading, but his mind still stumbled over a few words now and then. Lucille placed a warm plate in front of him, just before he blacked out.

…

He woke up hours later, not remembering he fell asleep. His coffee was cold, crepes gone and a blanket around his shoulders. Lucille left a note saying she went to go shopping. She probably thought he was tired from all of the excitement last night. But that was just it, he hadn't been tired- he had gotten the required amount of sleep.  
>This wasn't the first time.<br>Over the past year or so since his 'creation' he'd been passing out more and more with increasing frequency. It was usually just a few minutes or so, but this was the longest yet. Francoeur stared out the window into the cold winter morning and shivered.  
>It worried him.<p>

* * *

><p>AN:

Allow me to introduce: Shapes in the Dark EDITED.

ONGOING AT THIS MOMENT.

Sexity Sex-Sex Sex.

Or maybe not.

Mad respect to those reviewers out there, each and every one of you makes my day/ working in After Effects bearable.

Inspired by the first track off of "Ma Fleur" by Cinematic Orchestra.

So many lonely instruments in the darkness. Sex in a bed is so cliché.

And since I've received two private messages over the matter- yeah I ship Francoeur and Lucille, and no, I will not write you Raoul and Lucille fiction.

You kiddies out there will have to go write one yourself.

TMI time- Fleas only drink blood before they reproduce.

Their sex drive is centered on blood. Isn't that lovely? Their mouths also produce an anti-coagulant.

Oh, and look up how absolutely terrifying a flea's dick is.

So understandably, I don't think that's romantic.

Again, a very special thanks to Midground and greenisthecolorofmyenvy.


	2. Triangle

Triangle

A/N: Whoooo baby, did I make you all uncomfortable?

Here, Let me make you some more uncomfortable. (Well, not really- It's pretty tame compared to the last one.)

You people wanted it, who am I to deny you?

And it's been edited, would you look at that.

* * *

><p>It was Wednesday, and it had been a few days since that nighttime incident and Francoeur's bout of fainting. Lucille was out again today, paying a social call to some wealthy person or other. She catered to the rich and famous of Paris and that life was a demanding one. Socialites could be capricious creatures, and their tastes could change on a whim. It was up to the Angel of the Rare Bird to drum up interest for her theatre and impress the elite. Sometimes that frequently entailed going to brunch, a gala, or some pompous dinner occasion. Lucille staying visible and current was the key to obtaining their favor. On the same coin, it was imperative that Francoeur remain a man of mystery. The mask enticed the curious and left their nightly concert fresh and exciting. There was also the little matter of Lucille's dance partner being a seven foot tall singing flea.<p>

Currently, Francoeur was left alone in the flat and was practicing the finger-work for his guitar. He didn't really need practice, but he enjoyed playing all the same. Fingers plucked at the frets and the giant flea hummed a C note trying to tune the instrument.

There was a knock at the door.

Francoeur was seated in the kitchen, his legs arranged so he could sit comfortably on a stool. He looked up from his guitar, left his seat and unhurriedly crossed the room to the coat and hat rack. Lucille had taught him to answer the door properly, after all, he was constantly in the house while she was away. He placed the large white show hat on his head, the ivory mask across his face and two gloves on his four hands. Sometimes there were inquisitive callers or delivery men with packages. None of them stayed around long enough to get a good look at Francoeur, they seemed too unnerved by the mask and his imposing size. The giant flea strode over to the entry way and opened the door.  
>Outside was Raoul. The face that stared up at Francoeur was a halfway mix between frustration and exhaustion. The man straightened his tie and rolled his shoulders.<br>"Can I come in?"  
>Francoeur chirped in assent and opened the door wider. As far as he knew, Raoul was always welcome in the house. It wasn't like him to ask permission. They both crossed the room in silence. Raoul sat down on the couch and gestured Francoeur to take a seat in the armchair across from him. Raoul's elbows rested on his knees; his hands rubbed at his face and he made no eye contact.<br>"I saw what you did to Lucille." His voice sounded more tired than angry. "Oh, and don't play the 'innocent giant bug' charade with me, it's getting old really fast."  
>Francoeur crossed his arms nervously hugging himself.<br>"Don't give me that face. Look, I know you can't respond, but you can at least understand me. I want you to hear what I have to say." Raoul paused, looking Francoeur straight in the eye.  
>"You think I don't notice? All of those secret glances and smiles, all of those songs written for her? Regardless of what Lucille says, I am not an idiot. All of those nights she's too busy to even see me once, the way you dance together on stage…. I've known for a while that there's something going on between you two. It used to bother me, you know? I used to lie awake at night knowing that she was with you..." Raoul cleared his throat.<br>"But you know, I'm just so tired. I'm tired of fighting with her, I'm tired of constantly waiting for the day she would just be mine. Only mine. I will always love her, really I will…but I've found another. Gwenaelle, from the garden shop? Never mind, you probably haven't seen her. I just want a fresh start; I want something different, something calm. I guess what I'm saying is that I've thrown in the towel. You win."  
>Raoul's face relaxed and Francoeur shifted uncomfortably.<br>"I don't even want to know what happened, but I can easily guess. Lucille doesn't do anything she doesn't want to. She probably put you up to it. She probably got you excited and you didn't even know what you were doing. It's alright buddy, she does that to me too. But, you hurt her, didn't you? Not badly, and I know it was an accident... but, if you harm Lucille again..."

Francoeur looked up then, his eyes fiery and full of such emotion Raoul was taken aback.

"Honestly, you don't seem the type for flinging yourself at the ladies, and you certainly don't fit the bill of a violent...man…flea…thing. I want Lucille to be happy, Heck; I even want you to be happy. You're a nice guy, and believe me, I was peeved at you when I figured out what Lucille was doing. I guess I figured out that, in the end, it wasn't your fault. It's strange to say it was inevitable. Lucille always gets what she wants. Basically, what I'm saying is that I wish you both all the good tidings in the world, I really do. But see, there's this problem niggling at the back of my head: you're an insect and she's a lady. You both want to be together as a couple, but I don't think that could happen with the way you are now."  
>Francoeur's fists clenched.<br>He already knew that- but hearing out loud brought a whole new dimension to what he was feeling. The situation seemed hopeless. Why was Raoul here now, telling him all of this?

"At first I wondered why she kept me around in the first place, it certainly wasn't for my boyish charm, maybe she just liked fighting or maybe she liked my sense of humor. I doubt it. At first, I think Lucille was infatuated with the idea of me. The idea that she had me after so long. That someone was openly in love with her not only because she was beautiful or that she could sing like an angel. But later…I don't know, I really had only one thing to offer her that you couldn't…and it seems to me she tried to get it from you anyway. "  
>Raoul looked sheepish and crossed his legs, but continued.<br>"She loves you. I know you don't believe it, it's hard for me to believe too – but she does. Which is why –"

Raoul sat up and brushed off his jacket.

"We're going to go see The Professor. If he can make sunflowers and – more importantly, you – huge and create singing serums, it stands to reason he could make you human or something. He has got to have a solution."  
>Francoeur got up and walked to Raoul's side. Even if he had words, he wouldn't know what to say. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder and smiled. Raoul smiled back and nudged the flea's chest with his elbow.<br>"Come on, let's go. I got things to do and people to see. Oh, and if you ever tell Lucille about this, you are one dead bug. You got me? I mean, I don't see how you could... but still..."  
>Francoeur smiled wider and nodded. Together they headed out to Catherine II.<p>

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Somewhere on the other side of the Seine, Maynott was a somebody, not some nobody to be caged like common trash! His cell was empty now, the two other occupants removed. After he tried to strangle one of them, it was decided he should be confined in isolation. He liked it better that way anyway. All the better to think and plan without those two noisy lowlifes.

He all ready had a vague idea of what to do. It was once his job to keep criminals in check, so he knew the weaknesses of his own prison system. All he had to do was wait for the right time, and he could escape and have his revenge on the new commissioner, those two monster making buffoons… and Lucille of the Rare Bird. With her, his revenge would be so sweet he could almost taste it.  
>Speaking of which…<br>The guard was stopping by with the nightly meals. He could hear his footsteps down the hall. Normally, they would be slipped under the door, but Maynott plugged up the opening with his overcoat. The guard was outside now, vainly trying to push the food through. Then, he heard the tell-tale jangle of keys and scraping at the door.  
>Hah – moron.<br>The guard pushed the door open and cautiously stepped inside. From his vantage point the room looked empty. But the man knew better at least, and slowly peered behind the door…  
>WHAM!<br>The prisoner slammed the door into his face and the guard was knocked unconscious on the ground. He stomped his face in for good measure. Bones snapped under his heel, the crunch of cartelage echoed throught the cell. Blood pooled on the floor and the guard took his last breath through lips puntured by teeth.  
>Maynott cracked a smile.<br>It was almost too easy.

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There was no dreaming for Francoeur. His brain simply ran through memories in torpor. Sometimes it was just darkness and sometimes it was his life before he knew Lucille – before he climbed the rooftops of Paris.  
>This time it was the exquisite torture of returning to his original size, when Maynott thought he had killed him. He almost did too, his internal organs were shrinking at an alarming rate and they couldn't possibly support all of Francoeur's running and jumping. Luckily, the strain hadn't been fatal. Instead, Francoeur jumped on to Lucille's dress and contemplated his fate.<br>He could have been a simple flea again. It would have been easy to give himself over to instinct, its inertia dragging him down and down until there was nothing left. No more trappings of humanity, just endless eating, fornication and defecation. A life without living, a death without dying.  
>Francoeur also remembered that moment sitting on Lucille's shoulder.<br>How near.  
>How far.<br>He sat there for what seemed like an eternity. He faced an eternity without her casual touches. They could no longer dance together or sing a duet. There was no possible way for Lucille to ever hold his hand again. Why not just let his consciousness slip away? Forget everything, including this agony. The prospect was sounding more alluring by the second.  
>There was a rush of movement and heart wrenching sobs shook the fabric Francoeur clung to. He looked up and saw Lucille crying onto the surface of the vanity, clinging to her comb. It was a strange perspective, looking from her shoulder into the vanity mirror gave him a taste of what it was like to feel large again. He could imagine himself looking over her shoulder, sitting there brushing her hair or writing music.<br>Lucille's shoulders shuddered and fell. Painful gasps were muffled by her arms. If he gave up now he would be lost. There would be no pain, but there would be no joy either. There would be no songs and no love.  
>Would he bite her? Would he be her parasite for the rest of his days, crawling blindly over her body not even knowing what she once meant to him? His mates tearing into her skin. His maggoty children clinging to her hair.<br>No.  
>Never.<p>

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"You okay, buddy?"

Francoeur had passed out again. His masked face was pressed against Catherine II's cool window pane. Outside was the river Seine, Raoul was driving over a cobblestone bridge paying more attention to Francoeur's face than the road. The flea shook himself awake and rubbed his shoulders. It was the second time this week. He nodded and grabbed hold of the dash, Raoul just narrowly missed an old lady carrying groceries. The man swerved then righted the car.

"Yeah sure. Giant fleas just faint all the time. Regular fragile flowers." Raoul's voice was laced with concern. "Anyway, as I was saying…can you believe Emile is going to pop the question? I mean come on, don't you think it's a little fast to be clamping on the iron chains of marriage? You'd think a guy would at least shop around first…"  
>To be honest, Francoeur was glad Emile was going to ask Maude to be his wife. They seemed to be made for each other.<br>He stared out of the window, watching the buildings go by.  
>He wondered who he was made for. Was this really a good idea? He remembered doing a puzzle with Lucille. You couldn't force the pieces together if they didn't fit and you couldn't change the shape of the piece so it would. That piece belonged somewhere else, just as another piece was meant to fit in that spot, in that shape. There was every chance in the world she was meant for someone different.<br>Catherine II rounded a corner and proceeded down a long driveway leading to the professor's gardens.  
>In the distance Francoeur could see the enormous glass monolith, its walls revealing the verdant greenery underneath. Francoeur felt comforted; even now he could smell all of the foliage. The flowers and plants perfumed any streets within a three block radius.<br>Raoul's truck jerked to a stop.  
>"We'll go on foot from here, the wooden bridge rotted through. I mean, there isn't the 'moat anymore but there's plenty of debris I don't want Catherine II driving through."<br>Francoeur nodded and exited the car, letting Raoul lead the way.  
>The flea was torn. He wanted whatever aid The Professor could offer, but couldn't help but feel that this could be a bad idea.<br>They both picked their way through planks of wood and made their way up to The Professor's lab.

* * *

><p>AN: As always, I love me some feedback. Thanks again to Midground and greenisthecolorofmyenvy. I couldn't have published this without Midground's dutiful editing.

See, I can do things, like have a plot. I have a life this week, so I'll update as fast as possible- but, I'd rather finish this other oneshot first. I've ignored it for far too long. So update time frame, the latest would be Saturday…hopefully. This will be edited and re-uploaded as soon as possible.


	3. Square

Lucille could still feel Francoeur's teeth pressed against her neck. She closed her eyes for a split second letting the memory wash over her. Fingers thrummed on the table mimicking his heartbeat.

"Are you okay dear?"

Lucille chastely crossed her legs and nodded. Mrs. Kittelnubitz peered at her from across the banquet table. The woman was the wife of some foreign dignitary or other. Her French left something to be desired, but Lucille found her to be polite and honest – a trait that was becoming a rarity at these luncheons. Lucille's eyes did another sweep of the room. True enough, the banquet was expansive and lavishly furnished, but the atmosphere was positively atrocious. Men tittered at the far end of the mahogany table- stealing glances at Lucille when they thought she wasn't watching. Ladies dressed in far too much lace glared at her with open distain; their upturned noses painting them in a rather unflattering light. She was probably the youngest guest in the room, which wasn't saying much. An older man two seats down fell asleep in his soup - or at least she hoped he was sleeping. She was used to keeping far more civilized company. After so much time spent with someone as open and honest as Francoeur- Lucille could feel nothing but disgust for her current companions.

Her role at this god forsaken get-together was obvious.

The host thought that maybe Lucille would be an entertaining diversion. One whose popularity and exclusiveness would impress all the attendees. Normally Lucille would be happy to oblige – for a fee.

But she wasn't some show dog, and it was made clear to her she was invited as a special guest not a performer. Some of her clients liked to play this game with her: bribing her with promises of gourmet food and excellent connections. Of course she couldn't pass those offers up, but later it would turn out the host would need some last minute entertainment.

Lucille wasn't going to play this time.

She cleared her throat and got up from her seat.

"Ah, well – look at the time!" Lucille smiled at Mrs. Kittelnubitz and let her voice carry to at least five seats away. "I have to go. I promised the commissioner that I would join him for afternoon tea. You know how it is…" Lucille winked. "Ladies of quality are always in high demand."

Just as she made to leave, a serving boy blocked the exit.

"My master regrets that you have to leave so soon. He inquires if there is any possible way he can change your mind."

The boy discreetly pulled out a small velvet purse that jingled with the movement of his fingers.

Lucille was livid.

"Tell your master that if he was truly sorry, he would actually see me off himself. Also, let it be known that I am not some cheap prostitute that he can leash with a few coins."

"I beg you to reconsider – my master does not take no for an answer. Think of your theatre. Think of your future. He could make things harder for you."

"Oh really? Tell your master all the idle threats in the world couldn't make me stay one minute longer. I can think of nothing more terrible than dying of boredom at what your master seems to think is a party." Lucille shrugged her shoulders. "And if he has a problem with that he can take it up with my friend, _the commissioner_."

With that, the Angel of the Rare Bird shoved the serving boy out of the way and swept out of the room, not giving a damn about anyone.

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Francoeur hadn't actually met The Professor before. He wasn't quite sure what to expect. Raoul was unspecific as to what the man looked like or how his temperament was. 'A swell guy' didn't describe all that much. Francoeur knew that the man was in part responsible for his continued existence. Without his genius, Francoeur would be a simple tiny parasite without a voice and without Lucille.

The feeling of owing this stranger everything was an uncomfortable one.

"You coming?" Raoul hadn't bothered to ring the bell or knock. He simply strode into the terrarium like he owned the place.

Francoeur shrugged. He was sure this wouldn't make a favorable first impression, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. The giant flea adjusted his suit jacket and flexed his gloves. Maybe The Professor wasn't home – and all this worrying was for nothing. He could just go home and forget this entire thing. Francoeur stepped inside secretly hoping this whole expedition was in vain.

"Oh hey Charles, how's it going?" a snow white monkey greeted the visitors. He displayed some cue cards – but Francoeur still wasn't the best at reading. He was slow, too slow to catch what Charles was trying to say.

Francoeur always felt a little awkward around Charles. How do you interact with an animal you used to live on? Francoeur also did not like to think about his progeny. The flea was sure that if at one time he did produce children- they would in all likelihood still be living on the primate. Each one would be just an ignorant speck of dust clinging to some dirty fur.

Each one causing Charles discomfort.

Just then Francoeur felt small fingers grasping his own. He looked down and saw a monkey face peering back up at him with wide eyes. Charles gave Francoeur a searching look and gently tried to pull the flea forward. It was apparent he wanted to lead him into a sectioned off part of the garden.

"You know, a year ago – If some told me I'd be following a monkey and a giant singing flea around in a terrarium, I'd probably assume that person had a little too much absinthe. Nothing personal guys."

Francoeur for his part ignored Raoul's idle chatter. He liked the man, he really did, but after a while his words became nothing but background noise. Instead, his attention was focused on where Charles was leading him. They passed tall trees, a carpet of ferns and thousands of flowers that had no name. The sheer variety of flora was dizzying. Tiny finches dove in and out of the leafy canopy like little specks of color. Francoeur could hear the tinkling of glass and the rustling of papers.

A gruff voice carried from behind a row of hydrangeas.

"Well, well, I was wondering when you would show up. It's not like I'm getting any younger. Neither are you, as a matter of fact…"

"Oh hello Professor, and might I say your collection of plants is looking as beautiful as ever…"

"No one likes a brown-noser Raoul, so come off it. Besides I wasn't talking to you. I still haven't quite forgiven you for the damage you did to my lab. You, my boy, have sent me back two years of research. No, I was talking to your associate here – what's-his-name…"

"Francoeur, sir."

"Feh – sort of a weak name, don't you think? 'Honest heart' my decrepit ass. You'd think 'The Monster of Paris' would have a more frightening name…"

At this point, Francoeur desperately wished he could speak. At least then he could defend Lucille's choice in name. The Professor's personality rubbed him the wrong way. Like a much older and meaner Raoul, with no good humor to speak of. Francoeur let go of Charles' hand and walked up to The Professor, drawing upon his full height.

"Oh very scary, I assure you. But I have more important things to talk about than nomenclature. You cannot speak, am I correct?"

Francoeur nodded and his eyes narrowed. He didn't forget that this man's aid had helped him retain his size, but his rudeness was wearing away whatever entitlement this man had.

"I assumed as much. You know I never wanted to create a singing serum. The damn thing is virtually useless. What use could the world have for animals that could sing? Or worse, ones that could better human vocalists? But you know – it was a good start. You can understand human speech, which is something." The Professor paused, looking Francoeur up and down. "What's even more something is that you can adapt to human society and fulfill human roles and expectations. I haven't been to one of your little 'shows,' but I've been led to believe you can sing full sentences in the French Language."

The flea was unsure at what the man was getting at.

"You, my friend, are one special bug. One in a million, and believe me, I know. I guess I can let you in on a little secret – The Atomizitune, the singing serum, does more than just mutate a creature's vocal capabilities. It also reconfigures nerve endings and chemical signals – usually a nominal amount, but enough to reshape brain structure. Of course at this stage, it is only a theory. It still needs to be proven through more years of rigorous testing, but trust me – I am correct.

"In short, this little spray," The Professor pulled out a tiny perfume bottle, "makes you smarter."

Francoeur nodded. Raoul was strangely quiet for once, his attention hanging on each of The Professor's words.

"Did you think Charles was just a normal Proboscis Monkey? Hah – not in the least. I certainly didn't keep him around to help me in the lab. The species is smart, but not that smart. No, I needed him for testing. This specimen you see before you," He pointed to Charles. "Is significantly more intelligent than others of his species. Not quite as intelligent as you are, but the principle is the same."

Charles under such scrutiny decided to make himself scarce. The last Francoeur saw of the monkey was a shadow climbing up a distant tree.

"Ah but you didn't come to hear me ramble did you? Forgive me; it's been so long since I've had an attentive audience. I'm sure there's something you need help with…"

Francoeur made a gesture to Raoul, and then pointed to himself – peeling off one glove and placing his segmented hands where his heart was.

"Look, Professor," Raoul stepped forward. "We were wondering if there was anyway Francoeur could be human."

The Professor was silent for a while, his eyes examining the giant flea further.

"I think there's something you boys need to see."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The Professor led them down a hatch expertly hidden by moss and lichen. Below, illumination came from an eerie series of gas lights lining the walls.

"This is a bit extreme, don't you think Professor?"

"Obviously, Raoul, if I felt that way I wouldn't have built this place. I suggest from now on, that if you don't have anything intelligent to say then you should refrain from speaking."

Francoeur followed up from the rear. Things were getting more complicated than he would have liked. A simple yes or no answer would suffice. He just wanted to go home and have Lucille in his arms. Of course he wanted to be human for her, but there was something amiss here, though he couldn't quite place what it was.

"As I was saying earlier, you, Francoeur are very special – I don't think you grasp how special."

They descended into a large room. It was surprisingly barren considering the plethora of life above. A few tables were placed about the room and research notes covered the walls like wallpaper. A lone microscope stood on the center table in a sea of glass beakers and various Bunsen burners.

"You see, I have yet to perfect the Atomizitune. Before you came along, the effects of the serum were minimal and only lasted a few minutes at most. I have a feeling the strange cocktail that you were submersed in is responsible. The other serum responsible for your creation was an unstable enlarging serum. I have a theory that the two in concert created a new, more stable substance. The magnification aspect of the 'Super Fertilizer' increased the effect of the Atomizitune – along with increasing your size."

The Professor gestured to the table in front of him. On it there was a small glass box Francoeur didn't notice before. The inside of it looked empty upon first inspection.

"It's strange, Francoeur, that I find myself taking a shine to you. You are attentive and I can see you've got spirit. None of the others have shown this level of intelligence – and lack for a better term, soul."

_Others?_ There were shivers down Francoeur's spine. Raoul was still uncharacteristically silent.

"There was something else, something I didn't account for – but now seeing you in person… I don't know why I didn't see it before."

Francoeur approached the glass tank. In front of it were various magnifying glasses suspended by metal poles and clasps.

"There was contamination on the bottles. I am assuming Raoul was wearing gloves – but still, I am positive he left some sort of DNA contribution on the glass. A stray hair follicle or a skin flake would be all it would take."

Francoeur leaned in closer; he could see faint black specks jumping around - only a little larger than motes of dust. More decorated the bottom of the tank, seemingly lifeless.

"I thought it was Charles' DNA at first. I deduced that your belly must have contained primate blood at the time. Maybe that was the key to your success- your ability to bypass millions of years of evolution. But after trial and error- I don't believe that was the case."

The giant flea peered through one of the magnifying glasses. What were tiny specks were actually members of his own species. On closer investigation something was terribly wrong- the ones on the bottom of the glass were contorted into strange shapes. Their bodies were an abnormal assembly of legs; some had abdomens that were too squat or too long.

Francoeur flicked another magnifying glass in front of the first. Dozens of tiny faces peered upward in agony. Each one transfigured into some kind of horrible mutation.

Francoeur felt sick – he backed away into the table behind him. Various glass vials shattered on the floor.

"Professor, I would really love to know where you're going with this." Raoul finally found something to say.

Francoeur was now on the floor - Gloved fingers clutching his chest, teeth grinding together in his mouth.

Nothing had prepared him for this.

"Well isn't it obvious? Francoeur is part human."

* * *

><p>HAHAHA – UNPOPULAR OPINION TIME. Queue the haters.<p>

Sorry about the late update- technical difficulties.

Hello there. Yes, I am still alive. Thanks for making sure. Love you dudes. I always wondered why The Professor wasn't invited into the Gang, or even to the theatre. In my head I figured it was because he was a grumpy old asshole.

I GUESS I SHOULD LABLE THIS OOC and AU or whatever. I guess I shouldn't try to explain why Frank is the way he is…but hell, I will do it anyway. Again a special thanks to Midground and greenisthecolorofmyenvy.


	4. Box

"Wait a second – are you telling me Francoeur is _related_ to me?"

"Well, to be technical you both share some DNA."

"That's not possible, I mean, look at him." Raoul threw his arm back to indicate the flea, who was currently sitting on the floor shuddering violently. The man glanced back at Francoeur and paled. Francoeur's eyes were downcast, his long legs drawn up to his chest and all around him were fragments of broken glass. Raoul was so caught up in the Professor's monologue that he wasn't paying attention like he should have. He rushed to Francoeur's side

"Are you okay buddy?" Francoeur for his part gave a tiny nod. Emotions burned inside him, each one warring with the others for supremacy. Confusion, disgust, guilt, anger and helplessness. He wanted to know why. Why had The Professor done this? Why…

Suddenly his face felt numb and the edge of his vision was getting blurry.

"Francoeur?" The giant flea slumped then fell to the floor. "What did you do to him?"

"My boy, I have done nothing to harm him. I've been expecting this quite frankly – I am surprised he has lasted so long." The Professor intoned, almost impatiently.

"Old man, I don't know what you're talking about. Could you just tell me something flat out for once, please? Is he going to be okay?" Raoul looked down at his fallen friend. It looked as if he was still breathing.

"Oh, I am afraid not. If I may continue…"

"Francoeur! Can you hear me?"

"Oh stop the dramatics, he will either wake or not." The Professor shook his head in annoyance. There is nothing you can do for him right now."

Raoul propped Francoeur up against a desk, trying to brush the shards of glass out of the way.

"As I was saying, Francoeur is a perfect blend of human and flea DNA. There has never been a creature like him in all of human history, and there may never be another one. If you examine a common European cat flea, you will see quite a few differences between it and the being you see before you. Insects do not possess eyelids, or faces that can show expression. They do not have conventional pupils or irises and they certainly do not have lips, humanoid teeth, and tongues."

The Professor walked over to the far wall and pulled down a large chart of flea anatomy. The view from Raoul's vantage point was limited, but he got the gist of the picture.

"Does this look like your friend here?"

Raoul shook his head.

"I thought not. But you _can_ see the possibilities, right? I mean he's far from a perfect specimen, but still…"

"Look. I'm tired of following you in circles, old man. Just tell me how to wake Francoeur, okay?" Raoul sighed in exasperation.

The Professor let out an exasperated huff. "If you'd just give me a moment, you'd see that I am getting to the problem at hand!" He shook his head, "Young people these days," he muttered to himself, "No patience!"

Turning his attention back to Raoul, he continued, speaking slowly as though explaining something to a simple child. "Francoeur here, while a viable hybrid, has a fatal flaw. How long would you say a flea's life span would be, Raoul?"

"I don't know. I'm a delivery guy – not a biologist."

"It's about a year, give or take, depending on the length and amount of torpor. And since you are indeed a delivery boy, I guess I have to explain what torpor is." The Professor walked over to Francoeur and Raoul eyed him wearily. The Professor stared back, expecting some sort of reply or retort. Silence pervaded the room and the scientist visibly disappointed in Raoul's ignorance.

"It's sort of a state of hibernation. Insects enter it to conserve energy. Parasites like fleas enter torpor between switching hosts, they wake up when there is heat or movement. They usually lie in wait in bedding or hay waiting for a warm blooded mammal to come along. The more times a flea enters torpor, the longer the life span. I am not sure how old Francoeur is, but I can guess…"

The Professor's eyes lost their icy coldness and the man pulled a stethoscope out from one of his lab coat pockets. Raoul backed away a few inches as the elder gentleman yanked off Francoeur's suit jacket. He slid the stethoscope underneath the vest and listened for a minute or so.

"He will be alright for now, Raoul." The Professor sat back on the floor against a filing cabinet. His anger waning. "It's regrettable, but Francoeur's body has begun a deadly cycle. His body is over compensating for the lack of naturally induced hibernationand his natural life span is beginning to close. Slowly but surely Francoeur's body is shutting down. He might contain some of your genes, but not enough to extend his life. Look over in that glass box and tell me what you see."

Raoul was apprehensive and reluctant to leave Francoeur on the floor. The tank was only a few feet away. After glancing back at his friend he got up and walked over to it, adjusting the magnifying glasses. Raoul invented in his spare time, but he knew almost nothing about genetics. This really wasn't his forte.

His eyes focused on the black dots in the cage.

Instantly Raoul was filled with disgust.

He assessed the caged occupants and resisted the urge to gag. Each one bore some sort of resemblance to Francoeur in some way. Sometimes their tiny faces mirrored his friend's in simplicity or their bodies were long and streamlined, almost perfect. But, for everything right with their anatomy there were at least a dozen things wrong. Legs were contorted in strange configurations, maws were filled with jagged needles, and some limbs were bulbous while others were stunted. Most of the experiments twitched on the bottom pane of glass, but one or two jumped around too fast for Raoul to see.

"What have you done?" Raoul's voice was empty now. As if all emotion was drained from him. He rubbed his face with a gloved hand, willing himself not to punch The Professor in the face.

"I was simply trying to recreate your 'accident' on a smaller scale. Think of it – an entirely new race of beings manufactured by man. They would be immune to human disease, resilient to heat and cold, strong, and jump higher than any building – not to mention the reproduction rate. And, if Francoeur is any indication, they would be biddable. Not very hard to control at all. This sort of discovery could propel mankind well into the twenty-first century. The species just requires refining. Over there**,** in that box – I see the future."

Raoul looked back at Francoeur and felt his heart drop. If what The Professor said earlier was true, Francoeur was the closest thing Raoul had in the world to a brother. Not only that, he was a friend with a kind heart and a gentle soul. Lucille loved him, audiences adored him and Francoeur had neverhurt anyone or betrayed their trust. In a strange way, Raoul was proud that he had a hand in the flea's ascent to sentience and that they shared the same DNA. He had never really done anything to be proud of before. Sure he invented here and there, but never anything like this. Raoul suddenly felt outraged and protective. What The Professor was suggesting was vile. All the respect and admiration Raoul had for the man vanished. He looked The Professor straight in the eye and shoved the glass box off the desk.

"Well, Professor, I see a mess of broken glass. I refuse to let you create your own slave race. Not with my DNA, and certainly not from Francoeur's. I may have caused all of this with my carelessness, but I am going to fix this. All of it. And you're going to help, willing or not because I can think of a few people who'd just love to hear about this operation you've got going on down here."

"I will not be threatened– "

"Then tell me how to make Francoeur human. That's what we came here for in the first place and it seems to me if he was no longer an insect we wouldn't be having this…dying problem."

He grabbed The Professor by the collar of his lab coat. "Just tell me how we can fix this."

The Professor's expression softened. Francoeur was still prone on the floor, but segmented digits twitched in his right glove.

"My boy, this is the price you have paid for science." The Professor placed his hand on Raoul's forearm. "I understand how you feel, more than you would ever know. That is why I will help you, despite your insolence. But again –there is a cost. I will require some more DNA samples from you. Some hair follicles will do."

Raoul released the old man and moved backward two steps.

"And what would you do with my hair?"

"Create something that the likes of which the scientific community has never seen. No longer will I be shunned at expos. No longer be the subject of American jokes. I will be taken seriously as a genius, not some lowly botanist."

Raoul's eyes narrowed and the Professor noticed.

"And save Francoeur, of course…well, possibly."

"Possibly?" Raoul sneered.

"I have various theories that haven't been proven yet. I can't make any promises. Basically, I would be creating a serum that would tip the ratio – per se. I wouldn't be able to completely make Francoeur human – that would be impossible, but I could make him live longer and hopefully be more acceptable to the general public. I would make it so that your genetic characteristics would overpower the flea ones. That would be the best case scenario."

"And the worst?"

The Professor looked down at the broken cage.

"There is also the possibility it could destroy his genetic integrity. He could be irreversibly mutated for the rest of his unpleasant life – or if he is lucky enough… he could be granted a quick death."

"That doesn't sound like you're giving me much, Professor."

"I'm giving you hope. I think that's a fair bargain."

Raoul looked back at Francoeur. The flea's eyes fluttered occasionally, like he was only dreaming.

If only he had more options.

"Deal."

As soon as Raoul had uttered the word, The Professor was upon him brandishing tweezers and pulled at least three hairs from his scalp.

"Ow… Jeez old man…"

"For the record, this might take a while." The scientist caught Raoul glaring. "What? I am not some magician. I don't work in the instant gratification department. This will take time if you don't want you friend here to just be a puddle of genetic goop.

"We might not have time Professor, if what you said was any indication."

"You'll just have to be patient and have faith your friend is strong enough to make it."

Just then there was a commotion on the floor of the lab. Francoeur had awoken and was sliding on the broken glass trying to right himself. His suit jacket caught on the desk cornerand his vest was open, displaying his chitin covered abdomen. The flea's face was a mask of confusion and fear. He wrapped his arms about himself and stared at Raoul questioningly.

Raoul desperately wished he could offer more comfort. He was sick of The Professor and sick of this mess. They both just needed to go home. He hoped he could explain everything to Francoeur tomorrow because he couldn't take anymore of this today, and he was sure Francoeur couldn't either.

The whole ordeal made his stomach ache.

He didn't even want to think about the possibility of telling Lucille. He got Francoeur's coat and kicked some glass out of the way.

"You're okay buddy – c'mon time to get up." Raoul offered an arm and Francoeur took it gratefully. The both looked back at the scientist. He was already so engrossed in his work, he paid them no attention.

"Let's go home."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The streets were virtually empty.

Flurries of snow drifted down from the heavens like errant feathers on the wind.

What Lucille had said earlier was true; she did have an appointment with Pate – the new commissioner.

Whether or not she was going to show up was another matter. Pate was endearing and his courtship of Madame Carlotta was adorable to watch. It was high time her Aunt found someone just right for her.

But Lucille was hardly in the mood for social calls.

She just wanted to go home, have some tea, and curl up in Francoeur's arms.

It was strange how much she wanted to be with him lately – just him and no one else. The rest of the world seemed to matter less and less. Nothing felt as right as him, like he filled every hole in her heart perfectly. It wasn't even fair how he had topped her priority list so quickly. How could she have fallen so fast? Was this love? Was this what it was supposed to be? She melted when Francoeur crooned her name and she quivered under his little touches. Every duet made her heart soar, every dance was pure freedom. Raoul was now only an afterthought. Like a dying ember compared to an inferno.

She knew she wasn't being fair to him, but what else could she do?

Lucille's footsteps clacked off of wet cobblestone. She was maybe fifteen minutes away from her flat and she couldn't bring herself to hail a carriage. It was cold, but she had a fur coat and good legs. Walking didn't seem so bad. She needed an outlet to burn off her annoyance. Pate would understand if she didn't meet him today. It's not like he wasn't at the Rare Bird every night anyway.

Snow muffled the sounds of Paris and Lucille walked on, thinking again about Francoeur.

Half of what scared her the other night was how bad she had wanted him. Everything should have felt completely wrong – and later it did get a little… heated. But everything up to that point was so natural. Almost like breathing. She could have drowned in him right then and there. How was it possible that she felt this way? About a giant insect no less.

But it wasn't about that.

He was the only person in Paris that really saw her the way she was. He saw through the make-up, the costume and her feminine wiles straight down to the core of her. The mask she wore for the rest of society was of no consequence to him. She could just be Lucille, no glitz, no glamour, no come hither stare. Not even Raoul saw the real her, the one without confidence, the one without all of the self-esteem. Like all the rest of the men in Paris, he thought with his manhood. It was as if her heart didn't matter. True, she treated Raoul much the same way these days – but she could never do that with Francoeur.

Lucille wasn't perfect – she knew it. She'd been a hypocrite more than once.

It was time she told Raoul the truth. He deserved love just as much as she did. He needed another chance with someone new.

Lucille wasn't even sure if she was in love. It didn't quite seem like what society put forth on the matter. Plays and books didn't have much in common with what she was feeling, but she would take whatever it was. It was time for her to grow up and make a commitment. Francoeur and Raoul deserved at least that much.

Lucille was approaching the flower shop on her right. Maybe Raoul's friend, Gwenaelle, was in today. She had wanted to go home, but maybe she could pick up some flowers for Francoeur on the way. Besides, it would be a welcome break from the cold air. Her hair was getting damp from the flurries and getting sick was the last thing she wanted to do this month. Lucille smiled as the flower shop door let off an airy twinkle.

But the grin quickly slid off her face as her eyes alighted on the puddle of blood on the shop's floor.

* * *

><p>Okay guys- I'm taking it slow, So many questions! I hope I can answer them all in the days to come.<p>

Your support is awesome.

I hope you don't expect me to reveal everything at once.

Ah, if only things were as easy as magic!

Also again, so I can just re-iterate. I do not hate Raoul. I treat him like a stand-up guy. I mean, he can be a bit of a pig sometimes, but I think he just does it to cover up his vulnerability. I admit this chapter is a bit Raoul and Professor centric. Basically, I felt the movie had no Raoul character development. Be patient with me. Please? I promise I will give you lots of fluff sometime soon (very soon), I just want to get through this. NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE BETTER.

SO MUCH PSUEDO-SCIENCE. Science gods I am sorry.

And I guess Gwenaelle is a fan generated name. Cool beans – I actually thought it was cannon. Credit goes to whoever the hell thought that one up. I totally bought it, hook line and sinker.

This was rough. And to be honest I had a pretty rough week.

MIDGROUND is a lifesaver. She tore me a new one over this one. "**(SPEECH TAGS -PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ZEUS INDICATE THE MANNER IN WHICH YOUR CHARACTERS ARE SPEAKING)"**"**(maybe? She's just NOW thinking that, maybe possibly, she should break up with the boyfriend she's leading on?)"**


	5. Ellipse

_Earlier that Day_

Maynott was hunched over a park bench reading a paper. The morning sun beat down upon his back and his boots were entrenched in a wet slurry of snow and water. He tried to keep his face as blank and impassive as possible. His chin was unshaven – bristles that were too short to form a beard, but long enough it changed the contours of his face. Hair that was once combed neatly over his pate fluttered in the breeze like the wing of a long dead raven. Stains decorated his once stylish overcoat and his clothes were an ill fit on his thinning frame. Maynott's skin was the unhealthy pallor of curdled milk and his mouth was clenched in a perpetual grimace. All in all, he looked like a vagabond down on his luck. No one from his past life would be able to recognize him, and that is precisely what the man wanted.

He turned a page.

Only a few steps away sat his prey, blissfully unaware of her impending demise.

Maud carelessly chatted away on the next nearest park bench with her beau, Emile. Their voices would carry every so often gifting Maynott with little snippets of their conversation.

"Oh Emile, I can't believe Raoul is doing this." She folded her arms across her chest in a half pout and half shiver. "I thought he was happy with Lucille – they were positively made for each other."

Emile shook his head. "Not as much as everyone thinks. You haven't been there for all of the fighting." He examined the ground as if he had found a particularly interesting pebble. "And I for one don't blame him."

Maud's face became a deep maroon. "So you condone cheating, is that it?"

Emile shrank back as if his fiancé was a venomous viper. "No – no, that's not it at all. Maud, you have to understand..." He swallowed hard, focusing on his words. "Raoul is a man who has needs that Lucille can't fulfill. She may be a beautiful woman and she's got a kind spirit, but she isn't there for him in here." His hand pressed against his heart and looked Maud straight in the eye.

"What are you saying?" her voice gained a softer cadence.

"Lucille does not love him, not in the kind of way Raoul needs. If anything, the way they fight – it seems more like sibling rivalry than a romantic relationship. It's obvious she has eyes for someone else. I feel it's only natural that he would move on and find another woman. A woman who'd encourage him, let him win sometimes, and find his personality endearing, not annoying. And between you and me, it looks like he found that in Gwenaelle."

Maynott was listening intently now. Apparently he missed quite a bit while he was detained in jail. Life was not all sunshine and rainbows at the Rare Bird. The thought almost pleased him as much as the thought of revenge. He almost forgot he was supposed to be reading the paper and leaned in closer.

"But Lucille…" Maud frowned. "What about her, don't you think she deserves to know? She's a good person, one of the best people I know. Yes, she has a strong personality, but she does not deserve to be made a fool of."

Emile bit his lip. "Raoul said he would tell her soon. He said he had something to take care of first, and don't ask me what because he wouldn't tell me. Just trust him on this. He does really care for Lucille." He took off his hat and brushed off some invisible speck of dust. "Please, just trust him on this."

Maud leaned into her lover and Emile wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

"It'll work out Maud, I promise. And Lucille's strong – she's my friend too. I know she can bounce back, no problem. I know it's hard, but try not to get too worked up about it. Have some faith."

Maud sighed, watching her breath catch on the wind like a ghost with no direction.

"You were saying earlier, Lucille has eyes for someone else… who?"

"Do you really have to ask? Isn't it obvious?"

"I wouldn't ask you if it was, Emile." Maud's voice was laced with a hint of agitation.

"It's Francoeur. It's always been Francoeur."

Maynott almost dropped his paper in astonishment. Lucille was in love… with that monster? That freakish creature with the scarf?

Maud placed her hand over her mouth in surprise. Her eyes were wide with shock.

"You're kidding." Maud waited for Emile to reveal the real love interest, but the look on his face was serious. "You're kidding. You have to be." Again he beau was silent, so Maud paused, mulling it over for a bit. "I really can't believe it. How – I mean… how would that work?""

"Oh C'mon, Maud. Aren't you the least bit interested in seeing where this goes? I can safely say something like this hasn't happened before...ever."

"But Emile... Really?"

Emile smiled. "Really. I guess when they said love was blind, they weren't kidding. You haven't noticed the way she looks at him? She's never looked at Raoul that way." He pulled Maud closer. "I, for one, don't mind in the least. When you're in love, you're in love – superficial things shouldn't matter. Francoeur is a nice guy, with a good heart and he makes Lucille happy. That's all I care about. And as for it working – love finds a way."

Maynott muffled a disbelieving groan.

"When you put it that way, I guess you're right." Maud pecked Emile on the cheek.

"Come on, why don't we go find someplace warm. We can talk more about this later. You must be freezing." Emile said as he got up from the park bench. He stretched his back and then extended a hand to his fiancé. She gladly accepted it with mittened fingers and grinned.

"I know a great patisserie that's not very far from here…"

And with that, the young lovers left the park and headed east arm in arm. The sound of their chatting, sighing and laughing was muted by a cold gust of winter wind.

Maynott's mind was racing. Lucille was in love with that… thing? His stomach roiled at the thought. It was vile, grotesque and obscene. To think – Lucille, once the object of his affections, was capable of such filth. He almost gagged thinking about her having relations with that hideous creature. The idea of thin segmented arms caressing her perfect skin... It was absolutely repulsive. Maynott ground his teeth in disgust and fury.

Despite the fact that this new discovery made him want to retch , it didn't change too much in the way of his plans for revenge**. **The overheard conversation added just another victim to his list. As far as he knew, there was only one Gwenaelle they could be speaking of. That little nobody Raoul had a delivery company, if you could call it that. He'd seen firsthand what was inside the truck when he tipped it over with his lighter-than-air-craft. Maynott did not get the job as commissioner for nothing. For some years previous he was a police officer and a detective when called upon. His powers of observation had served him well over the course of his law enforcement career.

Raoul had quite a few bags of fertilizer in the back, meaning he had been delivering to a select few clients in Paris. And Maynott happened to know of a Gwenaelle who would have a use for the fertilizer.

She had a shop not too far from where he was sitting. Maybe six blocks or so. She was a sumptuous little thing, but far too common for Maynott's own tastes. It made sense for a rat like Raoul to fall for a mouse.

Maynott focused on the task at hand. He had some prey to catch. His revenge on Emile was close to coming to completion and that miniscule leprechaun wouldn't be able to stop him. He imagined how delicious the scene would be tearing Maud from his arms. Torn just like Maynott's own future. His heart sometimes ached when he reflected on the undeserved abandonment by Pate and Lucille and the betrayal of Emile and Raoul. But that pain would end now. Maynott smiled and took a bottle out from his jacket lining.

The couple was now far away enough that he could pursue unnoticed. He tossed his paper aside and left his seat on the bench. He kept a slow unhurried pace like a panther stalking a imagined himself as a sleek, powerful, black predator patiently awaiting his moment to pounce. He smiled wider, willing his teeth to become fangs while his mind was reveling in the comfortable weight of the revolver in his pocket and of the chloroform in his hand. It was time to set everything in motion.

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_A Few Hours Later_

Carlotta was never one for sentimentality, but today was that one, once in a blue moon daythat she let her heart take over. She was a practical business woman, and demanded to be respected as such. As an employer she was not to be trifled with, but was also an understanding mistress. After all, you get more bees with honey than vinegar.

It was difficult being a single business owner. Plenty of men tried to jerk her around and run her out of her profession. Carlotta was sure they felt threatened by a strong, self sufficient woman. She had dealt with both the Italian and Irish mafia on more than a few occasions along with the local bureaucracy and aristocracy. They hadn't beaten her yet and they never would, not while she had a breath left in her body.

But today she sat in front of Lucille's boudoir with her head in her hands; the picture of her sister was on the table next to tubes of lipstick. It was the only one in existence and it belonged to her niece, but that didn't stop her from paying a visit now and then. Life was hard at times, and it pained Carlotta to think about her late sister, but every so often she would sit in front of the photograph and speak to it as if it was Charlotte, alive and listening. She admitted to herself that it probably wasn't good for her sanity, but it lessened the ache in her chest. Carlotta would tell her sister about how beautiful Lucille was, how talented, how she would be so proud. Sometimes she would talk about the business or sometimes the weather, and sometimes about how lonely she was. But these were not the topics of today's conversation. Today was a bit different.

"… I just don't know what to do anymore, Charlotte. Lucille is a grown woman now and she should be able to make her own choices, but that doesn't mean I have to approve of them. Sometimes I just want to wring that girl's neck; I never would, mind you… but still." The Madame sat up and appraised her reflection in the mirror. "I send her to every social event of the season; she's got the beauty, the voice, and the brain, but she does nothing with it. By now she should have caught the eye of some young wealthy socialite or politician. But no, she has to spend all of her free time with a masked man and a delivery boy."

Carlotta fidgeted with a canister of rouge, unsure of where she was going with this pretend conversation.

"I'm just so tired Charlotte, I think I've finally found myself a worthwhile man. If things continue to work out, I want to sell this place. But, I want to make sure your daughter is taken care of, I owe her and you that much. She won't stay young forever…and I just wish she would settle down with a wealthy gentleman. I -"

Just then a crash and a series of bangs came from the backdoor. There was the tinkle of broken glass and an even louder bang. Someone was trying to beat the door down and break in. Carlotta's eyes narrowed and her heartbeat quickened. She didn't get this far by being a pushover. The proprietor of the Rare Bird reached underneath her skirts and undid a series of snaps, pulling out a gun from its hidden holster. Cursing her bulky frame, she tried to find cover just as a quartet of gunshots resounded from the hallway. The photograph of Charlotte was left forgotten as Carlotta pushed the love seat forward in an attempt to bar the door.

But it was too late, the intruder was already inside and from the sound of the footsteps he was making a beeline straight for the dressing room. She ducked quickly behind the small couch, breathing out a small prayer to God.

The door was kicked down; the intruder was silhouetted in the doorframe. A huge black shape against the brightness of the hallway.

Madame Carlotta poked the muzzle of her gun over the top of the sofa and waited for her uninvited guest to move closer.

"LUCILLE! I KNOW YOU'RE IN HERE!" He bellowed. The voice sounded so familiar. She peaked over the top of her cover to assess the man.

"Ah, Madame Carlotta – It's been too long. I must say, I wasn't expecting to get to you until later, but plans can be changed. "

The intruder's jacket was spattered with what looked like blood. The sleeves had the most gore on them. A few flecks of it decorated the man's crazed stare. The revolverin his right hand was pointed at her face was unshaven, but Carlotta's pulse jumped with recognition.

"To what do I owe the honor, ex-commissioner?" She sneered and her fingers itched to pull the trigger.

"Tell me where Lucille is, and I might spare your pathetic life." Maynott demanded, seething brutality with every syllable. His features twisted in contempt. "You can continue rutting with Pate like the common whore you are." She could see it in his eyes he had no intention of letting her go. She'd be damned if this bastard even touched her niece. She was the only family she had left.

"Oh Monsieur, I'd rather die first." She quirked a defiant smile but her legs were shaking.

"That can be arranged." He snarled.

"Try me."

Carlotta gripped the gun with both hands, steadying her grip. Maynott straightened his aim.

"_BANG-BANG"_

The echo of bullets spit the air and then silence.

Blood leaked out from Maynott's shoulder and he clumsily dropped his weapon. He stumbled backwards in shock. His left hand pressed against his open wound. Things were not going as planned; he needed to leave. Now. The sound of the bullets was sure to bring the police in any minute. His revenge was not yet complete. He stumbled down the hallway, out of the wreckage of the back door and out into the alleyway.

On the dressing room floor Carlotta was bleeding out onto the carpet. Her fingers tried to close the bullet wound in her throat, but she was losing blood too fast. Her skin felt cold and lights rioted in and out before her eyes. She gasped, but all she could taste was copper, not air.

Carlotta reached for Charlotte's photograph, but her hand floundered. She gurgled her last breath and then was still.

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Maynott lurched through back alleys, ignoring the cold. Damn that woman. She almost ruined everything. The flower shop wasn't very far now, but he was out of chloroform thanks to that pesky Emile and he had no weapon. Maynott grimaced; he'd gone too far to give up now. His eyes scanned the ground. Just a few meters ahead of him was a big enough fragment of broken glass to be of use. He gingerly grabbed it and picked up the pace. He needed to move quickly and get to Gwenaelle's shop before the police figured out what was afoot.

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Lucille stifled a gasp.

Her stomach twisted and writhed like a wounded animal as she gazed at the scene before her.

Inside the shop blood was smeared on the walls as if red hand prints were trying to find purchase. Potted plants were tumbled over and broken. Shards of terracotta and soil littered the floor.

There was a rush of movement from the back. A scream pierced the air and then was muffled.

"I said SHUT UP!" a man's voice shouted and then was followed by a loud thud.

Lucille held her ground, it sounded as if the Gwenaelle was in trouble. If she ran and got help it would be too late. He hands curled into fists and she grabbed the nearest rake, trying to push aside the fear gnawing at her insides.

A figure flew out from the supply room clutching the struggling shopkeeper. There was a flash of teeth and broken glass and then another thud. A breathy whine escaped the victim's throat. Lucille rushed forward to her aid. The aggressor whipped around, his face a mask of surprise – then cool contempt.

"Stop right there, or she dies," Maynott hissed, pressing a piece of broken glass against Gwanaelle's neck. Lucille lip curled into a snarl, recognizing his face, but she did as she was told and put the rake down.

Maynott nodded. "That's right, Lucille. Easy now – we wouldn't want anyone to get hurt." But Gwenaelle was hurt already. A cut in her forehead bled into her left eye. Her other eye was black and swollen. She held herself upright like a broken bird.

"Oh, I have waited so long for this moment." The man smiled sweetly, but it only made his appearance more ghastly."It seems like providence that you were delivered right into my hands. Just a second dear, and I will be right with you – there's just one tiny thing I need to find first." He paused as if considering something. "Move from that spot and she's dead." He pressed the glass harder against Gwenaelle's neck. "Now darling," he crooned gently to his captive. "Where's the gun?"

"Don't tell him!" Lucille shouted.

Gwenaelle let off a strangled noise. Maynott sneered. "Oh, now, I know you want to tell me. You must have one, what, a smart business woman like yourself?" Her eyes flicked over to the desk near the back of the shop.

"See was that so hard?" he made to move the blade deeper into her throat, effectively silencing her forever.

"NO!" Lucille screamed. "Take me instead! Please!"

"What's this? The Angel of the Rare Bird willing to sacrifice her life for some common filth? How noble."

"Yes, just please, put her down. I'll come quietly. It's me you really want, isn't it? She has nothing to do with us. This should be between you and me."

"You know I can't say no to you Lucille," he grinned wide, like Death itself. "As you wish."

He marched up to Lucille and grabbed her arm, then flung his previous captive to the floor with forceful venom.

"You were right, you're the prize I really want. But you were also wrong too, that trash you see on the floor has everything to do with this." He shoved Lucille over to the desk and she didn't struggle, as per her deal. Gwenaelle scuttled behind a large potted plant, her heavy breathing the only sound in the room.

Maynott rifled through each drawer until he found the object he was so desperately seeking. Polished silver glinted in the day's fading light. He looked in the chamber. It only had three bullets, but it was enough.

"Ah, you see Lucille – I will have my vengeance on all of you. Pate, Raoul, Emile, you, and that monster. Destroying Gwenaelle would certainly be a fitting revenge for Raoul, don't you think?" He aimed the barrel of the gun at the potted fichus that his previous victim was using for shelter. Lucille made an incoherent noise of confusion and alarm. She slammed her elbow into Maynott's side, but instead of crumbling he yanked Lucille's hair, ripping some of it from its roots.

She gasped in pain. "You promised that you would let her go. Raoul's just a friend –"

"Oh that's right, you don't know. You're street scum lover has been cheating on you this whole time with that little mouse over there." Lucille's eyes widened and Maynott savored the moment like a sweet wine. "It's a shame really, you're so much prettier. But there's no accounting for taste."

Lucille gritted her teeth in pain. The sound of sirens called out from not too far away. Maynott pulled her close and then he whispered so softly in her ear. "Oh and your sweet Auntie? Quite dead, my dear. I certainly saw to that." She paled, her lips lost all color and a single tear traced its way down her face.

The shrieking wails of the police cars were getting closer.

"It looks like it's time to go. Ah, well. Tell the boys I said hello." He shot at the potted plant like it was the punctuation at the end of his sentence. Gwenaelle shivered in silence, unharmed. "Come on dear," he pulled her towards the exit. "I have an appointment to keep." He gave the shop one last smile, approving of the destruction he wrought and then dragged Lucille away, leaving blood smears in his wake.

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Francoeur stumbled into the car. He felt extremely weak, a sensation that he had only felt once before. His limbs ached with use and his eyes wanted to stay closed. Sounds were far too loud and his vision was far too blurry. His mind, though, was speeding – desperately trying to sort out the events of the past few hours. He wasn't entirely an insect, but he wasn't entirely human either.

He glanced over at Raoul, who was starting the ignition. He didn't know how to feel knowing that this man's blood flowed through his own veins. Did that make him his brother? He wasn't sure.

The thought of what he saw in the glass tank flitted through his brain. Francoeur flinched as if stung.

Francoeur just wanted to go back to his most recent dream. The one he had when he blacked out in The Professor's lab. The memory of it was fleeting but peaceful.  
>He could remember the sensation of Lucille being nestled in his arms, safe and warm. There was nothing else, no one to hide from, and no one to please. Just Lucille, himself and darkness. Soon he would be home again, and then maybe that dream would become reality.<p>

Raoul was speeding down the road now, hunched over the steering wheel and his eyes glued to the street. If Francoeur could speak, he would have broken the awkward silence between them, but instead he pressed his head against the window pane and watched the scenery go by. Minutes passed like hours.

Raoul finally spoke, his voice parting the stagnant air. His face was tinged with reluctant apprehension.

"Francoeur, buddy, there's something I've got to tell you-" he sighed, gripping the wheel harder. "I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I – What the hell?" Catherine II jerked to a halt, up ahead was Lucille's house, swarmed by police.

Raoul coasted his truck up to the blockade.

Suddenly there was a banging on the driver's side window. Raoul looked out, and then down.

"Emile?"

It looked as if his friend had seen better days. His clothes were tattered, he was missing his bowler hat and his right eye was as black as the night sky.

"He took Maud!" the little man shouted.

"Wait, what?" Raoul leapt out of his truck, not giving a damn about parking violations. Francoeur followed suit, making sure he was properly disguised.

"MAYNOTT TOOK MAUD!" Emile's fingers raked through his hair and his features were contorted in anguish. Pate ran up behind Emile, his face blank and lifeless. He opened his mouth to find words, but shut in again, his shoulders slumped forward. His eyes focused on something in the distance and it was moments before he finally spoke.

Pate's voice came out as a raw croak. "Madame Carlotta is dead, Gwenaelle is in critical condition at Saint Francis… and we can't find Lucille anywhere." His hand covered his eyes. "We believe Maynott took her."

* * *

><p>AN: SO. It looks like you guys don't like this one. Ive gotten the least feedback for this one...ever. :( I was a bit over the top, but I'm not sorry.

But whatever. Ill just keep moving forward, with or without support.


	6. Arrow

Sundown had crept in unwelcome on crooked feet. The toothy shadows of buildings and trees bit down on the city of Paris, like a mouth closing ever so slowly. Streets flared red in the dying light, crimson like poppies and bright like fire. A church bell tolled in the distance – its deep, mournful bellow stirred the frigid air. Each clarion note echoed off buildings, as if somewhere far away, a giant was weeping – dreading the oncoming of night.

Francoeur stood in front of Pâté, his white suit turned carmine in the setting sun. His insectile heart raced, but the rest of his body was devoid of feeling. It was the calm before the storm, the breath before the fall. Any moment the numbness would leave and in its place would be chaos and fury, anger and darkness **-**feelings that Francoeur had only just scratched the surface of before. The Monster of Paris closed his eyes, listening as he awaited the oncoming torrent. Any moment now he would leave his semblance of humanity behind and go stalking into the night, hunting Maynott down with vicious efficiency – a cold invertebrate cruelty. The ache in his chest and the need to find Lucille rose steadily like the Seine's relentless tide, threatening to consume him body and soul. The only thing tethering him to the ground was the need for more information.

Raoul punched the side of his truck and Emile, tiny as he was, looked ready for war. Pâté's eyes had focused on something in the distance; they were huge, wet and watery. His mouth was pressed into a thin quavering line. Something in his face wavered like a guitar string against a fret. His visage was a mournful chord, brittle against the open air. It was a few minutes before anyone spoke. Even from this distance the faint cacophony of Pâté's men could be heard, searching Lucille's flat for clues. No table was left unturned, no wardrobe unexplored, nothing was left to chance.

"Do you have any leads?" Raoul finally ground out. "Any at all?"

"Maynott's been good at covering his tracks so far." Pâté's voice broke; he coughed and then continued, wiping his eyes as he spoke. "He was one of us once and it looks like he's been putting that knowledge to good use. If it wasn't for Emile and Gwenaelle, we wouldn't have known that he was the culprit."

"Is she stable? Will she be alright?" Raoul bit his lip and held his breath.

"It's hard to say, her injuries were quite severe and it looked like she had quite a few broken bones. She's in good hands, safe hands. There's nothing you or I can do about it now…" He trailed off, wringing his hat in his hands. Raoul nodded mutely, placing his hand on Pâté's shoulder in a silent acknowledgment of Carlotta.

Emile piped up from behind, his voice fraught with anger. "You mean to tell me that that rat bastard is off with Lucille and my Maud – doing god knows what! – and your police force doesn't have any clues?"

Pâté began again, "There was a lot of blood, but all of the melt-water from the snow has washed away any trace. Whatever tracks Maynott had left are gone. My men are working as hard and as fast as they can. Believe me, no one want to find them more than I."

At that point Francoeur disagreed. He had lost the only star in his sky, the song in his heart and the wind on his back. He shuffled impatiently, his long fingers itching to tear his clothes off and leap into the night. More than that, he wanted to avenge Carlotta – one of the very few people that had ever been kind to him. He made a chittering sound, half in impatience and half in frustration.

Pâté's gaze fell to Francoeur. Emile and Raoul Followed suit. Up until this moment they hadn't given much thought about how the giant flea was reacting. Pâté reached toward him, trying to place a comforting hand on his sleeve, but Francoeur hissed and pulled away. The monster ripped off his mask and his mouth contorted in such a way that his lips drew up over his teeth in a feral snarl. There was nothing left for him here – Pâté knew nothing and Raoul and Emile knew just as much, perhaps less. He remembered Gwenaelle and he knew of her flower shop. Problem solving wasn't his forte, but he was smart enough to know that the flower shop was the best place to start. Night was rapidly approaching and Francoeur instinctively knew that time was running out. Every second he wasted here meant another second Lucille had spent at Maynott's mercy, another second Maud had spent under his thrall.

Francoeur tore off his gloves and undid the belt to his trousers. Clothing would only restrict him.

"Francoeur, what are you doing? Are you nuts?" Raoul shoved Francoeur against his truck, out of sight from Pâté's police force. Francoeur responded with a growl – a mixture between human and insect, deep and throaty, laced with the keening fluctuations of a cricket. All four of his hands were balled into fists and his eyes were a fiery red. He glared with such intensity Raoul swallowed hard, but he still kept eye contact.

"What if someone sees you?" Raoul pushed him harder against Catherine II. "What if you pass out again?" Francoeur was much stronger than his friend; it would only take a tiny shove to get the man off of him. Raoul still continued oblivious to the differences in strength, but keen on Francoeur's intent "Do you really think that you could find them in all of Paris?"

"Maybe he could." Emile interjected. "He isn't human. He isn't limited the same way we are…"

"Emile has a point, Raoul," Pâté pulled the man off of Francoeur. "Let him go. He is probably their best chance right now."

Raoul nodded mutely and Francoeur proceeded to kick off his shoes unhindered.

"We could at least try to follow him," Raoul said. "Give him some back-up. I also don't like the idea of sitting here, twiddling my thumbs and doing nothing."

"Me neither." Emile agreed, his chest puffed up like an aggressive sparrow. " I refuse to stand here while my Maud is in mortal danger."

"It could be said that as civilians you shouldn't be involved." Pâté paused running his hands through his thinning hair. "I cannot publicly condone vigilante justice, but at this moment I cannot think of any other way…" he looked over at Francoeur, who was almost naked but for his scarf and white undershirt. The rest of his clothes were in a puddle on the ground. "Go. All of you. I will try to follow as best I can. If anyone asks, this conversation never happened." Pâté gazed into the setting sun. It fell low behind the Victorian houses and clouds moved in slowly from across the horizon. Gusts of bitter wind brushed his hair off his pate and a single tear traced its way down his cheek, but no more followed. He brushed it way with his sleeveand without a backwards glance he strode back to his team of investigators.

Francoeur looked on, feeling a pang of regret and thought about how poorly he treated the man. He then focused on the rooftops of the nearest buildings; now was not the time for retrospection. He shifted on his legs preparing to jump, the cold air of Paris biting at his nearly bare body.

"Francoeur!" Raoul called. He had gotten into the driver's seat of Catherine, while Emile hurried to the passenger's side. "Buddy. Just stay safe and find them, okay?" The air was punctuated by the slamming of both truck doors.

Francoeur didn't bother with a response. He took a deep breath and leapt into the sky. The wind screamed in his ears like a maddened beast. There was nothing left of the world but the occasional thud of a roof under his legs, torrents of frigid air, and the fading twilight cast by a dying sun.

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Blood was everywhere and inside the shop almost nothing was left intact. Francoeur strode over broken glass and terracotta. Soil and wilting plants littered the floor while displaced papers fluttered in the open air.

His stomach clawed at him in hunger. The sickly sweet smell of plasma was hard to ignore. Its cloying scent twisted his insides with longing. He tried to push past instinct and picked his way through the debris. What was he looking for? He wasn't quite sure. Francoeur wished being gifted with human faculties also meant being gifted with great intelligence. As far as he was aware, he was average compared to most people – maybe even a little less. But he wasn't about to give up; determination drove him forward. Francoeur kicked aside a fallen ficus and examined the desk in the corner, but to no avail. He gazed desperately around the room for something, for anything.

Something by the back doorway caught his eye.

A singular red handprint marked the wall, a bit out of place compared to the rest of the gory smears. He placed a segmented hand against it then pulled away. The smell was so familiar…

Francoeur closed his eyes.

_His teeth against soft skin. The perfume of sweat and lilac scented soap. Fingers brushing lightly over the spines of his back. Sweet salty nectar running freely over his tongue._

_Lucille._

The hand print was undoubtedly hers; on closer inspection he recognized the slender fingertips and its graceful shape. He pressed his hand against it again and his heart almost broke asunder. Lucille was hurt and he couldn't help her. She was at a mad man's mercy and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it unless he could find her.

He punched the wall in frustration.

Outside Catherine II stuttered into neutral and Francoeur became aware yet again that he was running out of time. Dragging his palm away from the bloodprint, Francoeur stepped through the back door and into the alley.

A cat bounded up from a trashcan onto a high ledge, but otherwise the narrow passage was unpopulated. Scraps of trash skittered in the breeze and dark cobblestone ate up any shred of light. The smell of her blood was there too, like a phantasm that he couldn't quite escape. He could almost feel Lucille arms around his torso, her thighs pressed against his. He shivered and then stumbled to the ground, as if her very ghost stole the strength out of him. His vision started to fade into blackness…

_No._

Not now, not again.

The alleyway before him writhed and twisted like the insides of an enormous snake. Cold crept its way inside his exoskeleton and Francoeur knew he had only seconds of consciousness left. In desperation he smashed his head against a brick façade. The pain jolted his senses awake and his teeth clenched with effort.

Not now.

He needed to find Lucille before it was too late. Shaking his head, his vision cleared and Francoeur proceeded down the passage. The cloying scent followed closely behind and he had the sneaking suspicion he was missing something. He parted his lips, sucking in as much air as possible – sampling it and trying to track its source. Three meters down on the side of a building Francoeur spotted another gory handprint. But instead of a perfect copy of Lucille's palm it was elongated. It bled and trailed for at least five paces and led onward, like an arrow.

The Monster of Paris cocked his head to the side trying to decipher its meaning. It seemed too carefully placed to be a mere coincidence.

Even stranger, farther down he could make out another print trailing the same way.

Either Maynott was a clumsy abductor, or Lucille was leaving Francoeur clues – in the only way she knew how.

Francoeur hastened down the murky corridor, stopping only discover a new mark.

Time was not his ally.

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Fifteen minutes later the bloody handprints ended and Francoeur found himself in front of the back entrance to the Rare Bird. The door was askew off its hinges and from his vantage point he could see the umbrella stand toppled over in the hallway.

Again his heart sank.

He did not want to see the destruction Maynott had inflicted on his beloved theatre, but the need to find Lucille spurred him onward. Inside, the view wasn't much better.

Francoeur's soft footfalls were the only sound that could be heard. Usually the building was filled with echoes of laughter or the low murmur of anticipation, but tonight it was silent as freshly fallen snow.

He ran his fingers across the decorative wallpaper, seeking comfort in familiarity. He still remembered those first days, when the world was bright and new – filled with wonders and fears. Even with every new experience, through all of that confusion** -**Lucille and the Rare Bird were his tethers in a strange reality. But the hall felt cold now and all the warmth and color seeped out leaving only a monochromatic nightmare.

Francoeur approached Lucille's dressing room and haste soured into apprehension. His hand paused on the doorknob, shaking. What if Lucille was dead inside? What if he was too late? Finally, with a deep intake of air he turned the handle, almost flinching against what he might find.

Inside, the couch was upended and little squares with numbers on them dotted the room. On closer investigation they seemed to be labeling something – sometimes spots of what looked like blood. A number six was placed on Lucille boudoir while a tiny number eight stood near a bullet casing. Otherwise, on first glance, the room appeared to be empty.

No.

_No. This can't be all there is._

Francoeur peered behind the sofa, searching for something, anything, but what he found shook him to his core.

There, behind the furniture was a chalk outline of Madame Carlotta's prone form. One long faded carmine stain made its way down the back of the sofa and into the center of the drawing. Even now, Francoeur could smell death in the air; it clung there like old smoke or the aroma of long decayed flowers. He doubted the room would ever be clean of that scent again.

Francoeur briefly closed his eyes and mourned, but there was little time – he had to move on. Pulling himself away from the scene of Carlotta's end, he clumsily bumped into the dressing divider and toppled it.

That was when he discovered Lucille's show dress was gone. It was not underneath the mess he had made, nor was it on the mannequin. He sampled the air. He could smell Maynott and his putrescence, fresh but very faint. The stench of cologne, sweat, blood, and alcohol mingled with something he could not identify – but whatever it was made him dizzy. Underneath that was the scent of Lucille's blood, fragrant, fresh and constant. He tried to follow it, but with all of the other pressing scents it was hard to trace. He attempted to walk over to the dresser, but something crinkled underneath his segmented foot.

It was a photograph of a younger Lucille posing in front of the Eifel Tower; a wide careless smile was plastered on her face. The only pigment on the image was a red splotch right over younger Lucille's heart and a smaller one on the tower's pinnacle. He shimmied it out from under his foot and off the floor. Standing in the picture behind Lucille was an older woman Francoeur didn't know. Her hand was placed on Lucille shoulder and her face mirrored the subject's happy smile. They both seemed to resemble each other, even in tiny ways he couldn't rightly understand. It was oddly disconcerting that Lucille hadn't mentioned this woman before. But it was more than that, deep down inside him something screamed at him that this was a clue. Perhaps she was telling him where Maynott was taking her. Perhaps she was at the tower.

Maybe it was desperation – Lucille's blood path had ended and Francoeur had nothing else to go on.

He didn't even know where to begin again. Pâté's men had found nothing and every second was a grain of sand slipping away into oblivion. There was no time to backtrack. Francoeur paced back and forth assessing the picture, wishing things were simpler.

All that he had was the faint hope that Lucille and Maud would be at the Eiffel Tower. He clung to the photograph; she had to have left this for him to find, but the more he thought about it the more that hope seemed foolish. It was just a red smear on a picture, and the insect part of him bit at his brain, chiding him for thinking so abstractly.

His heart decided to go anyway.

It was his heart that loved Lucille and it was his heart that he trusted to find her at all cost.

He quickly exited the room and made his way out the back door to the outside.

Snow began to fall soundlesslyagainst the city streets and buildings. Francoeur again desperately wished Lucille was safe in his arms, sheltered from the snow and the frigid weather, protected from those who would do her harm. He ascended the roof in a single leap and made to survey the area.

Suddenly his heart was throttled inside a vice of pain and it felt as if it would explode from his chest. He gasped for air like a man trapped in a hangman's noose. Francoeur lost all sensation in his face and in its stead was cold unmovable flesh. Strength ebbed from his limbs and seeped out into the night as if the very air was vampiric. The Monster of Paris leaned against a chimney for support.

He could almost hear her voice on the breeze, high and soft calling out his name. Her breath a light caress against skin and chitin.

_Francoeur_

He called out into the dark landscape. Not a gentle melody, but a cry of anguish. All of the rage and pain he had to offer escaped his chest and the sound burned inside his throat like an unquenchable fire. The inhuman noise echoed off the rooftops and drifted into silence.

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><p>AN: Mad shout outs to my reviewers. You have my undying gratitude. You know who you are. Also – entire chapter, wrote via Ipod – after two computer file corruptions and two weekends of frivolity. Zeus the Asus is still being repaired.

P.S. I am treating the Parisian Police force like a bunch of inept idiots. I mean – besides Pâté, in the movie – they certainly were. Because you can find a giant monster under a teacup, but not in a chimney or a piano. And unpopular opinion time – I don't like Sean Lennon's singing. I've tried for months to like it – nope. I still like M though. Daniel Nigro form As Tall as Lions would have done so much better, but that's my inner hipster opinion.

_Stab city – As Tall as Lions… actually that whole damn self titled album._


	7. Pyramid

A/N: I rewrote this thing 3 times- between an iPod, a desktop, and 3 laptops. My Apologies for the late update, but as I said before, I'm doing this for me. I feel like I'm kicking a dead carcass here and expecting a different response. Never let it be said that I am a sane human being. Also Lucille has a mouth on her when prompted. And so it is written. Also sorry to let you guys down- heck tons of garbage going down in my life. Listening to 'Fistful Of Silence' by The Glitch Mob

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><p>Every so often Lucille would struggle against her handcuffs. Her arms ached as they were forcibly stretched backward so that they would encircle a girder. But the effort was for naught, the discordant sound of metal scraping against metal was her only reward.<p>

She tried to focus on the rhythm of her chattering teeth instead of the blistering cold. Even from Lucille's vantage point they city was beautiful. It shone in the night like a huge crystalline jewel - flashing and flickering with all of the radiance of a dying star. Cars wove around its facets like fireflies and streetlights clung delicately from its sharp edges. Light blossomed from thousands upon thousands of homes and each one was a beacon of warmth in the forlorn darkness. Even if Lucille's hands were not bound behind painfully behind her, they were impossibly far away. If only she could just touch a scrap of that warmth, if only she could feel her fingers.

But idly wishing was not going to help her dire situation. The wind was blowing harder now, and the clothes Maynott had forced her to put on were not on the practical side. The man was all about show and drama, that much was apparent. Why else would he kidnap her and then have her dress for the occasion? Lucille could feel the feathers of her nightly ensemble lightly fluttering at the nape of her neck and the white gauzy lengths of her dress clung tightly to her thighs. Let him be theatrical. Let him put on a show, maybe it would by her some time. He would have his moment, but she refused to play the part of the helpless maiden. There would be no crying for help and begging on her end. If she was to die up here, it would be quietly and with dignity. She would have the same grace as her namesake. She would be the Angel of the Rare Bird in full and there would be no more tears.

After all, there could be worse places meet death. The view was breathtaking from the top of the Eiffel tower and the bitter wind also carried notes of car horns and violins- reminding her gently life would go on without her. Perhaps, if there was a God or a heaven, she would see her Aunt Carlotta soon and maybe if she was lucky- her mother. Maybe death wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would be painless.

But for a moment Lucille let her thoughts drift to Francoeur and her throat felt tight. She would leave him so alone on the face of this earth. He had no one and nothing now. The Rare bird would close, she and her Aunt would be long gone. Raoul and Emile would do their best to take care of him to be sure, but things would not be the same. No one would know his tender heart like she did, no one would give him the chance. Paris, for all of its beauty was a cold, dark place. She could imagine him wondering the streets alone until time finally exacted it's inevitable toll. In her mind's eye she could see Francoeur collapsing in some snowy alleyway, a curiosity long forgotten by the supposed City of Love. At that moment, she was more afraid for him than herself.

Maybe he would find her before it was too late. Francoeur was clever, brave, and persistent - and Lucille trusted in him above all things. She trusted him more than Raoul and she trusted him more than the entire Parisian police force. If anyone could save her, he would.

Almost unbidden, Lucille ran her thumb over the slice in her palm- its edges were puckered and she could feel the dried flakes of blood. She mentally winced as her thoughts danced back to the feeling of raw skin on stone. The sting of broken glass. Lucille hoped that her gory breadcrumb trail was enough.

Just then she heard errant footsteps in the darkness.

But Lucille was not some prey to be played with. Her sharp eyes picked out a lumbering figure in the night. Minutes had stretched like hours and Lucille was unsure of how long she had been left unattended by her captor. She only knew that some time ago he had strode off muttering about "retrieving her company".

But now Maynott was back, a lumpy black shape against a dark-gray sky and Lucille could make out a bundle that seemed to wriggle and writhe against his shoulder. He lingered at the top of the emergency stairwell for a moment before depositing his cargo carelessly on the sheet-metal landing. The man thought he was unseen - the way he moved made in painfully obvious. The Maynott fancied himself a predator, she could see it in the way he moved around her, stalking, assuming he was invisible- unaware his captive was far more perceptive. Unaware that he looked far more foolish than menacing. A small laugh escaped Lucille's lips into the frigid night and the breath of it left her lungs like a huff of smoke from a wounded cigarette. It was almost too ridiculous to believe that this giant man-child had murdered her Aunt and managed to break into Gwenaelle's shop, not to mention capture the star of the Rare bird.

"The cold must be getting to you my dove," he said, stopping in his tracks. "You certainly have nothing to laugh about."

"On the c-c-contrary," she said, trying to keep her chattering teeth in check." This is h-hilarious."

"Oh? How so?" his tone all politeness and civility. "I don't see what's so funny. Let's see..." he paced closer to her now, his eye-shines locked on her face. "Your sweet Aunt is dead, your lover Raoul has all but forsaken you, and you my dear..." he moved even closer. " Are cuffed to the top on one of the largest man-made structures in the world...completely at my mercy." He grabbed a hank of her hair and inhaled deeply. The stench of him was overpowering, like carrion drenched in aftershave. But for all of that odor his face was still unshaven and the bristles rubbed against her face with all the softness of sandpaper. She grit her teeth as his lips hovered above her own, slightly parted in anticipation. The foul miasma that leaked out between his teeth almost brought her to tears. But just as he was about to draw closer she gathered all the saliva she had left in her mouth and spat in his face.

She would never let him have that satisfaction.

"Not in this or any other lifetime, you bastard piece of shit." She sneered with all of the vehemence of a queen, not a captive. Never would she let this bastard take her pride of integrity. But Maynott's retort was quick, painful, and of a more physical nature. In the blink of an eye he backhanded her and her vision flashed red and black. It took her a moment to recover and tried to focus on her assailants face once more. He panted for a few seconds and then regained his composure, straightening his stained suit collar.

"Language, dearest Lucille, Language. Is that any way for a lady to talk? I expected much more from a woman of such... distinction."

"F-f-funny, I didn't expect much more from a brute like you." Lucille replied, her right eye swelling up. "You're a coward to the core. You're just a child with a gun, playing at being a big man and its d-d-deliciously laughable."

"Your Aunt didn't think so."

"You got lucky, you bastard. I know first h-h-hand your aim is s-s-shit. Even a b-broken clock is right twice a day. "

"Even so," he said with a wry smile."She is still very much dead. And you are still alive- why do you think that is?"

"Because you think you're s-some sort cat playing with a mouse. Why not just k-k-kill me already and get in over with?" Lucille didn't want to die necessarily, but such a question would buy her more time.

"Oh, angel, you don't get it do you?" He said almost tenderly." I am here to save you."

"From what?" Lucille replied with all of the venom she could manage.

"Your indecent ways, of course- from that monster that you've taken into your bed."

"I don't know what-"

"Oh don't play coy with me, Lucille!" letting his composure slip. "You and I both know what you've been doing with that disfigured beast." he reached for Lucille's jaw and held it tight so she couldn't speak or look away. Her lips pursed together painfully- they cracked and bled form the cold. "But that's all in the past now. I can forgive...I can forget. I'm a reasonable man, Lucille." he wrenched his fingers from her jaw and backed away a few steps gesturing to the grand expanse of the skyline. "It's this city that's unreasonable! it's this city that's the murderer! Not me. I am simply carrying out justice. You, your friends, and all of Paris, they all betrayed me! ME!" His teeth flashed in the darkness. Spittle left numb spots across Lucille's nose.

"Me! The city's one true public servant! I who stood for the greater good! I whole worked night and day to keep this city safe!"

"You're...deluding yourself..." Lucille said. Hypothermia was beginning to set in and her thoughts were beginning to move syrupy-slow. The distant lights of Paris were no more than fading blur now.

" Am I? All I wanted was to rid this city of a dangerous animal. I should have gotten a medal, I should have been mayor- I should have been celebrated! But no, you and your little friends decided that I should be humiliated and demonized in front of the entire populace. You left me disgraced and had me arrested! You destroyed my life, my FUTURE!" Maynott was breathing heavily now, but the insanity within him was just beginning to take shape.

"It's a simple concept- an eye for an eye. I deserved vengeance- but in today's world nothing is freely given. I simply took what was denied me, and even so- I am ever so merciful." he paced in a circle around the support Lucille was bound to. His gait was one of an inquisitor assessing a heretic doomed for the pyre. "Madame Carlotta paid for her folly in full. She was the one who instigated this whole disaster. If she hadn't insisted I come visit the theatre, my reputation would still be intact. Not to mention cowardly that Pate... I'm sure her death wounded him as much as his betrayal wounded me. "

Maynott's careless bundle began moving in earnest and muffled sounds came from within, almost like the desperate cooing of a dove. The iron railing made a hollow sound as the strange form rubbed against it and then went still.

"What is-" Lucille began, but Maynott cut her off, refusing to allow his monologue to be interrupted.

"Raoul, your lying lover, got what he deserved too. He lied to me, he lied to you , and he lied to all of Paris. The injury of that mousy flower shop owner seemed fitting, don't you think? It wasn't what I had in mind at first, but it certainly was effective. I would have rather used her as bait, but you my dear are the more valuable prize..." he paused. "Looking her up and down. "Which leaves that ridiculous Leprechaun, Emile... and of course you."

Finally, Maynott made his way over to the almost forgotten bundle and hefted it in one arm. He carried it to the edge of the railing and looked down at the ground hundreds of meters below. It seemed as if he was thinking something over, but then thought better of it and turned around. Instead he threw his cargo at Lucille's feet and smiled.

"A gift for you, to show no hard feelings." he tugged on one of his gloves." Want me to unwrap it for you?"

Lucille didn't respond, she didn't have the energy to waste. She was so very, very cold. But there was no need, as Maynott was already tearing away rope and canvas. She swallowed hard and tried to focus, but what she saw shook her to the core.

"Maud!" Lucille choked out. Even so it sounded more like a whisper than an exclamation.

There lay tiny Maud battered and broken. Her face was bruised, her lip was bleeding, but her chest rose and fell steadily. She was alive.

"Emile should have been more careful, he should really look after his things more..." Maynott's smile glinted and curved like a blade. "After all, valuable things are liable to get stolen."

"Why...her... " Lucille gasped.

"Simplicity. Really, Its far easier to hurt someone through love, rather than outright pain- Isn't that right Lucille?" he stated. "All of this, my vengeance- is love. The power of love can be the most excruciating thing on this planet. I would know."

"You...d-didn't love...me. You... loved the idea of me. You don't know what love is." she said, anger giving heat to her bones and fire to her words.

"And you do?"

"I-"

"Don't lie to me, angel. I've seen and over heard enough. " He said. "You never loved Raoul, did you? You used him like you used me. I don't even believe you loved that monster. You were curious maybe, but you used him to dispose of me. You're very clever Lucille, very clever. You keep him around because he is useful, an utterly loyal pet"

"You're not m-making any sense..."she shuddered.

"You're just like me, Lucille- using people to suit your own needs. That's why I can forgive you, that's why I'm willing to forget. If I couldn't forgive you, then that would make me a hypocrite, wouldn't it?'

Lucille wanted to shout at him, that she didn't need his forgiveness, that she didn't want to hear any more of his self indulgent absolution., but again her once clarion voice failed her. Instead she struggled faintly against her bonds, but Maynott took no notice.

"I've had a change of heart, you see." he rambled with the pretention of an underrate orator." Originally I was going to destroy you all, picking each individual one by one, using the bait of love to lead one to their demise. But it's a long, messy process...and you know me, Lucille- I'm far more partial to instant gratification. "

He nudged Maud's prone from with the tip of his boot. Time was moving oddly for Lucille, There seemed to be a long pause before he continued.

"We're meant for each other, Lucille. the rest of these pathetic commoners are nothing! All of your little friends..nothing. " Maynott sneered." I'm here to save you from mediocrity, your sinful choices, your twisted desires. I'll even give you Maud, if only you would give yourself over to me. We can end this right here and now."

She considered Maud, so small and broken on the ground before her. The woman's clothing was torn, and she'd likely last maybe half as long exposed to this kind of cold. Her breathing was even, and she wasn't visibly bleeding and that counted for something.

But as she was about to acquiesce to his terms, she glimpsed the glint of his gun in the darkness, the twist of his mouth. He wouldn't let Maud go.

"Never." Lucille said, as if that word would be her last.

Maynott gazed at her face, then looked away feigning disappointment.

"I expected nothing less quite frankly, I figured more persuasion would be in order. And the lady Maud, while fair, doesn't pack quite the punch I'm looking for. She's just here to sweeten the bait."

Then, out of the night an inhuman roar waivered. It was distant, but heart wrenching. Lucille's throat tightened at the sound. _It couldn't be..._

"No, my dear, there's still one more obstacle in my way. Did you think I didn't notice your little trail?"

Maynott dug in his pocket and then pulled out a tiny vial. He strode forward and held it up to her face with a smirk. Inside it was an opaque liquid that was strangely metallic.

"Do you know what this is?"

Lucille frowned an slowly shook her head.

"This is pure mercury. Do you know what it does to fleas?"

Lucille's puffy, nearly frostbitten eyes widened.

"Don' worry, I'll show you. And thanks to you little clues- it won't be long before our last guest arrives."

No sooner than he had uttered those words, the was a crash and a thump against the railing below. The sound of scratching metal and light footsteps echoed up through the twisted pyramid of steel. Then an almost musical growl, as if someone was stripping the strings off a violin. Then a pause, the world silent as snow - no music, no honking, just quiet air. Lucille sucked in a breath.

She wanted him to run, to go far, far away from here. She wanted to shout a warning, a plea. But the only one word fell from her mouth.

"Francoeur."


End file.
